


Thanks for the Memories Vol. II

by bereniceofdale_archive (bereniceofdale)



Series: Thanks for the Memories [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: I delivered, M/M, Memory Loss, Set in Middle-Earth, you asked for a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Thanks for the Memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for the Memories Vol. II

**Author's Note:**

> You asked for a sequel, I delivered.

Thranduil stood for a while next to the King of Dale's large bed, pacing the room as if he couldn't bring himself to sit on the chair that had been put there just for him. As if doing so would be crossing a line.

The Elvenking didn't understand why he was here.

He didn't understand why a messenger had been sent to his halls to ask him to come to the King of Dale's side. He had even wanted to decline, not because he didn't care for the man who had been a good ally to his kingdom, but because he didn't feel it was his place. But as he looked at Legolas, he noticed to flash of pain that painted his son's face, disappearing as fast as it had come, before it was replaced by something else; something almost pleading.

That had made him curious, for he didn't recall Legolas being particularly close to Bard, and Thranduil had accepted.

But now he was alone in the King's bedroom with only a dying old man for company.

The worst of it had been Bard's children and grandchildren. It was like they had finally stopped pretending. He knew it in the way they looked at him; full of sorrow, full of regrets long concealed. It had hurt, triggered something deep inside of him.

He didn’t like how it felt.

He hated this room, there was a feeling unpleasantly familiar about it. Something at the corner of his mind, something he couldn't catch no matter how hard he tried. But he didn't try; his gut told him not to. They told him it would hurt too much.

Yet when his old ally—for that was what the King of Dale was to his eyes—shifted in his sleep, murmuring incoherent words, Thranduil let go. Slowly, he went to sit by Bard's side, an odd lump forming in his throat; familiar, there was something so familiar about all this.

Finally he let his eyes linger on the old man's face; it had changed over time, but maybe in a better way than what could have been expected. He looked as old as he was, but there was something still handsome about him that Thranduil couldn't quite explain. Like Bard could never be anything else to his eyes.

His face was wrinkled, his hair grey. Thranduil had not doubt his eyes were tired. He was old and death was waiting at the door to take him to eternal sleep.

It pained Thranduil, in some way. He was used to men and kings dying. He had had his fair amount of it, but he had never been able to get used to it. This kind of death... dying from the passing of time, it was never a notion Elves could quite grasp.

Their lives were so short.

It felt like a blink since the first time he and Bard had met. Barely, even.

Thranduil shook his head, closed his eyes.

He didn't understand why Bard had asked for him to come. He didn't understand why his children didn't seem bothered by the fact their father had asked that a fellow king be there for his passing, and not them.

Maybe because, just as much as a father didn't want to see his children die, a father didn't wish for his children to see him exhale his last breath.

Maybe it was a way of men.

When Thranduil opened his eyes, he was met by the hazel of the King of Dale’s staring right at him, filled with something the Elvenking couldn't quite put words on. There was an overwhelming mix of emotions.

Hope. Fear. Relief. Sorrow. Love.

Then the corner of his mouth turned upright and Bard's warm smile was present as ever.

“You came.” His voice was hoarse, but what filled it most was relief beyond measure.

He weakly reached for Thranduil's hand, but tears quickly filled his eyes as Thranduil pulled away reflexively.

How could this man he barely knew outside politics, look at him as if he was the center of his world? 

“Of course,” Thranduil said, trying to ignore the light in the King’s gaze, “But Bard, your childr—”

“We've had plenty of time to say goodbye. They know this is what I want,” the old man cut him off as firmly as he could manage. “And this is what they want for me too.”

“I fear I do no understand.”

“You don't have to.”

There was a long silence after that, during which questions upon questions swirled in Thranduil's mind. He didn’t expect this; never before had he spent time with Bard, for Bard had always pushed him away, even for the most simple of things. He wouldn’t even meet to share wine. 

He understood now; there had to be something he wasn’t aware of. 

“I just I wish you had never forgotten me,” Bard said then, voice full of regrets, underneath his breath as if he was talking to himself.

Thranduil looked up again and frowned. “I've never forgotten you.”

Bard shook his head, his smile turning sad. What he said next was barely a whisper, probably not meant to be heard, but Thranduil's keen ears caught it anyway.

“I wish you had never forgotten us.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He didn't know what to say, for he didn't understand. His confusion grew as Bard sighed and looked away, as if to hide the tears that were threatening to roll down his cheeks.

“Bard.” He got no other answer than the old man closing his eyes, spilling salty drops  down to wet his white night shirt. “Is there something I should know?”

To that the King of Dale shook his head slowly.

“No,” he croaked weakly, “there isn't.”

Silence fell between them once again and the air was filled with Bard's unsteady breath; it made Thranduil sick. He could almost smell the death in the air. It wasn't right. All of this was terribly not right and, for the life of him, he couldn’t tell how exactly.

“Thranduil?”

“Yes?”

“Will you hold my hand?”

Thranduil stared at it for a moment before he allowed their fingers to touch. He squeezed Bard's fragile, wrinkled hand lightly; it sent a shiver down his spine but he chose to ignore it, and instead he tried a small smile.

“Thank you,” Bard breathed.

The King of Dale's hand felt cold in his; Thranduil hated it.

He watched as Bard brought their linked hands to his heart and let out a quiet sigh of contentment. Then he closed his eyes and for a short moment, Thranduil thought this had been his last breath.

And that, that scared him.

Despite his long life, Thranduil had never seen a man die of old age before his eyes.

And somehow, now they were there all alone and that he could barely feel Bard's slow, weak heartbeat under his hand, he was terrified to lose him. It made no sense; he had always known this moment would come. He had never cared that much, for death is the fate of men.

Yet, with Bard, something was different.

“Bard?”

“I'm still not dead if that's what you're wondering.”

“Ah—well I figured, but yes, good.” He couldn't retain a small chuckle from escaping his lips and immediately felt bad for it, but Bard was smiling and looking at him again with those light sparks in his eyes.

But on his cheeks there was still the path of his tears.

His own smile disappeared in an instant; there was nothing okay about this, nothing to laugh or even smile about.

“Please, don't,” Bard said then. “Let me see it.”

“See what?” Thranduil looked away as he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Your smile. Please. Let me see it.”

“I can't.”

“Please, Thran, please.”

Thranduil looked up at that. He stared right into Bard's eyes, confusion close to shock painted all over his face. _Thran?_

Upon seeing Thranduil's reaction, Bard seemed to stiffen; his grip on Thranduil's hand grew as tight as what the little left of his strength could manage. As if he feared Thranduil would let go.

“I'm sorry,” he begged. “Please, don't leave again.”

 _Again?_ Thranduil shook his head, smiled with as much reassurance as possible. “I will not.”

His free hand joined the other holding Bard's. “I'm not going anywhere.”

How could he leave now anyway? If it wasn’t a possibility earlier, it couldn’t be one now. 

“Will you hold me?” Bard asked then.

“Bard, I don't think—”

“An old man's last wish.” He tried to smile. “The bed isn’t that bad.”

Thranduil surprised himself by how little he hesitated to lay next to the King of Dale, wrapping his robes over Bard's fragile body, bringing him closer, offering him his warmth; doing those things he had never thought he would do again. 

Surprisingly, it didn't feel odd. It didn't feel as wrong as he thought. No, it was worse.

It felt right.

Right and terrible at the same time.

Thranduil found himself releasing a shaky breath as Bard snuggled against him as best as he could, burying his head in his neck and his fingers not leaving Thranduil's. He didn't know how long they stayed like this. He didn't know.

“Le melin, Thranduil,” Bard whispered.

Thranduil's breath got caught in his throat. He said nothing, but he felt it all.

Love. Love beyond measure.

It made no sense but it was there, burning yet dying. It emanated from Bard like fire, with more strength that should be possible from a man he didn’t even know much about. And that fire spread through him, infecting blood, heart and soul. Yet, it wasn’t complete; it was as if it waited for something to happen to show how big and fierce it was. 

A spark, so that the fire could blaze into an inferno, and then explode.

When it happened, the Elvenking wasn’t ready. 

Actually, nothing could have prepared him for this.

At the second the room fell silent and Thranduil stopped feeling the beat of Bard's heart against his, he knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to push Bard away.  To look at his face and see it unmoving. It was painful enough to feel how his body was nothing more than a puppet in his arms. He found himself missing his voice and his smile already. 

And regretting. Regretting so many things he hadn’t done and hadn’t said. 

He regretted not asking enough questions, all those times at meetings when Bard had looked off, unwell or broken, sometimes all that at once; when even Thorin had laid his gaze—usually more serious than was necessary—upon him and seemed sad; when he had seen Legolas comforting a crying Tilda as if she was family.

And now, now that Bard was gone, it all hurt so much. 

That was when Thranduil understood.

And there was the spark the fire had been waiting for.

The world seemed to stop, the silence was impossibly loud and his soul felt like it was being ripped from his body, his own heart torn apart. He struggled for breath, fought against the pain spreading all over his mind, tried to choke back the tears that threatened to fall. He hung onto Bard's lifeless body like an anchor as he realized. He just _realized_.

Bard loved him, yes.

But he loved Bard too.

And there was no explanation, there were no words. But suddenly he knew, he knew that Bard’s love was the truth and it was what was right, what was meant to be. What had always been meant to be.

He screamed into the King of Dale's chest, he screamed at all this overwhelming pain that overtook him like an unexpected wave, destroying everything fragile on its way.

How fragile he really was.

How wrong this all was.

Thranduil felt more alone, colder and more desperate than he had ever been, in this large room as he held that body getting colder and colder with each minute that passed. He was alone, yes; alone with death. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed like this, crying his pain away, repeating how sorry he was, wishing he could find the missing pieces that would explain the ever growing hole in his heart. For all those emotions, all the hurt had no memories to go with them.

But he felt them, there underneath the surface, ready to burst out. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted them to; it hurt enough already. 

Yet when finally he kissed Bard’s forehead and laid his gaze upon him; saw the smile of mixed contentment and sadness fixed on his lips, his eyes half closed and filled with love, they came.

They all came rushing down.

And there was nothing left but pain and sorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I love you too.  
> This was supposed to be a ~500 words drabble but it got a tiny bit out of hand.
> 
> Nooo I'm not that cruel, I promise I'll write a fix-it! 
> 
> Leave a comment and a Kudos and I'll be the happiest writer on Earth? <3


End file.
